


Rewriting Molly Hooper

by IsItWinterYet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsItWinterYet/pseuds/IsItWinterYet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper needs to get Sherlock out of her life, so she goes to America, intending to rewrite her life. Little does she know she’s about to meet the one woman who is the perfect pen.<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One-Way Ticket

The breeze was cold the morning that Molly Hooper backed her bags, took a cab to Paddington Station, and boarded a train that would take her to the airport and then later, on a plane to America.   
She couldn’t take it anymore. The city, the bustle and the noise of the hospital had become too much for her since Sherlock disappeared. She had given her notice and packed her bags the week after.   
Sherlock Holmes had always been the epitome of what a man should be for her. And she had, foolishly, always thought he would turn to her in the end, like the men in the romantic comedies she watched. And in the end, he had, in a way.   
And she had helped him right out of her life.   
She watched her reflection in the window of the train. Stupid girl, she thought to herself and sighed. How could you ever think someone that magnificent could love you?  
She knew she was plain and shy; her older sister had always made that quite clear. Joan had always been the pretty one, the friendly one, the popular one who always had a boyfriend. Molly was the, as her father said, “the smart one.” So while her sister was busy planning her wedding to a rich lawyer, Molly had been preparing to graduate university and was already thinking ahead to her career.   
There were plenty of men for other girls, but not Molly. From a young age she resigned herself to the fact that one day she would get married, but it wouldn’t be to one of the handsome ones. It would be to someone in the pool of desperate men feeling their biological clocks ticking. Someone plain and shy like herself. Someone who would wear brown jumpers and read the paper and work an office job.   
And Molly wanted nothing more than the exact opposite of that.   
She wanted life and colour and adventure. She wanted someone who would sweep her off her feet and dust the briefcases and brown jumpers and newspapers out of her life. She wanted something more than plain and shy. She had, in her desire for the unknown, latched onto Sherlock. She had driven herself mad with longing, refusing to give up the fantasies that warmed her days, and set fire to her nights. She had made herself sick with crying, refused to eat, slept for days on end. She knew she was pathetic, and that she needed to get out of the places that reminded her of him.   
New York, New York had been the answer to her prayers. One way ticket bound for the city with its exotic lights and alien culture. The people, the food, even which side of the street you drove would be different. And she, Molly, would be different there. She was determined to remake herself there. To let all of the past memories that haunted her fly away. She wanted to rewrite the chapter of life titled, “Molly Hooper.”


	2. Concrete Jungle

New York had been a wonderful surprise for Irene. Oh true, it was a concrete jungle of the worst kind: the grime, the homeless pouring out of every available orifice the city had, the prostitutes and junkies lolling on every corner. But it had that something, that spark that made her feel alive. Mycroft Holmes had been correct; she was thriving.

She was, once again, on top. 

Irene smiled to herself as she sauntered down the street. She smiled to a man who lived a few blocks from her. Because he was the owner of the café that she preferred to take her breakfast in, she already knew what he liked and had gotten a table reserved for herself. She watched all the men that passed her, knowing that their favour took just a few whispers, a slap on skin, and through them she would secure for herself a life here. 

She walked up the steps to the bistro that contained her favourite lunch and was ushered in kindly. They already knew her here.   
She only had to nod to the server for them to start cooking her usual. She loved the unpredictability of her occupation, but in her daily life she preferred to keep a schedule. Her routine kept her sane. 

She absentmindedly glanced over her phone messages while she waited. Three from the Spanish Embassy, five from the new Hong Kong trader at the Stock Market, and a few from the random men who were foolish enough to think they had a chance at her heart. That was the one thing Irene would never give to anyone.   
She looked across the room to where the waiters were bringing out food, and her eyes fixated on one person in particular. They were sitting alone, facing the wall opposite her, so Irene could only see the back of their head. 

But she could have sworn she’d seen that flowered jumper before…


	3. Getting-To-Know-You

Molly had decided to try a place she hadn’t eaten at before; just some little bistro off her beaten path. She had no idea the shadow in the corner had been staring at her for the best part of five minutes. It was only when she caught the scent of spicy, oddly familiar perfume that she turned her head, barely catching the shadow walking out into the street.

I couldn’t be, Molly thought, the store bell ringing in her head. 

Without thinking, she threw some money on the table, grabbed her coat, and exited the bistro. She stepped out onto the curb and turned just in time to see a familiar silhouette walking away from her, one hand on a fur stole, the other clutching her phone.   
Molly had to make her slow down, so she cried out in a moment of boldness,

“Ms. Adler! You are looking much better since I last saw you.”

She saw the figure freeze and turn to face her. Irene sized her up as Molly walked toward her, ignoring the people that were staring from her outburst.  
When Molly finally caught up to her, she could see that her statement was right in more than one way. Irene looked better than ever, or so Molly thought since she could only compare to a few photographs and a false corpse.

“Ms. Hooper, I presume?” Irene asked, holding out her hand. Molly grasped it and tried to shake the tingling Irene’s skin left behind.   
“That’s right.” Molly replied shortly, “The last time I saw you we were back in London.”

Irene smiled, the corner of her red mouth curling, “On a slab, if Sherlock was correct.”

Molly smiled a little, “Well, yes. I was the one looking after the body you so graciously left behind.”

Irene began to take notice of all the people staring, so she looped her arm through Molly’s, ignoring the stunned look on the smaller girl’s face and began to lead her away from the crowd.

“Consider it a getting-to-know-you gift,” Irene replied, clutching Molly’s wrist with her free hand, walking along with her like they had been friends their whole lives, “Let’s have a chat at my place, shall we?”


	4. Brass Number 13

The two women had hailed a cab and rode to Irene’s flat in silence. Even though Irene had let go of Molly’s arm the second they were out of earshot of everyone, Molly couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still holding onto her. 

The cab ride was rather short and quiet, and Molly couldn’t help but gape a little as it pulled into the driveway of a lavishly columned walk-up. She hadn’t seen flats this nice since she’d gotten here. 

“My rooms are on the top floor. I hope you don’t mind the climb,” the darker woman announced as she led Molly into the marble lobby.

“Oh no, I’m fine. I’m used to climbing,” Molly assured her, feeling slightly out of place in her peasant’s blouse. Everything here was so elaborate. Irene must feel right at home, she thought.

Irene smirked at Molly over her shoulder and began to walk up the stairs. Molly followed, her shoes suddenly feeling worryingly slippery on the polished marble. After what felt like forever, the spiral staircase came to a stop at a white set of double-doors simply marked “13.” 

“How funny,” Molly remarked, trailing off when Irene looked at her curiously. Irene raised an eyebrow and Molly shrugged, “It’s just that your number is unlucky,” she finished, gesturing vaguely toward the door. 

Irene had a distinctly feline smile as she turned her key in the lock, “I don’t believe in luck, Ms Hooper.”

The doors opened onto a finely decorated, mainly white room with black accents. The room was almost a mirror of Ms Adler herself, and Molly couldn’t help but notice that the black was almost the colour of Irene’s hair, and that the furniture had silhouettes that mirrored her sleek body. Irene excused herself and left the room to Molly’s scrutiny. The smaller woman eyed all the expensive décor around her and was suddenly very aware that she was not wearing much makeup.  
“Can I offer you a drink? Some tea, perhaps?” Irene’s voice floated to Molly from the adjoining bedroom. Molly could hear what sounded like the slide of fabric on skin. She cleared her throat.

“Thank you. Tea is fine,” she replied as Irene came out of the bedroom, now dressed in a stunningly revealing garnet lace dress.

The taller woman busied her maid with the tea, and invited Molly to sit on her sofa, curling herself into a stark-white armchair across from her. 

Molly was so busy studying the fireplace that she didn’t notice at first that Irene was staring at her intensely, an unreadable expression in her eyes. Molly was a little irritated that she didn’t feel as awkward as she expected to under the other woman’s inspection.

The maid entered with the tea and the silence was palpable as Irene poured. Molly noticed she was careful not to brush fingers when she handed her the cup. 

“Ms Adler…”

“Irene, please.”

“Irene. Why did you take me here?” Molly asked, eyeing her companion warily. 

She’d heard about the maliciousness this women could unleash if she was so inclined. Irene merely smiled.

“Ms Hooper…Molly, if I may? I’m not sure why you’re here, and frankly I don’t care if he sent you, but I want you to know that whatever he told you to tell me, I’m not interested,” the Woman said, leaning back coolly.

Molly’s brow furrowed and she shook her head, “Who do you think sent me? Sherlock?”

“Well yes.” 

“No one sent me here. I came by myself.” Molly told her, sipping her tea to distract from the prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

Irene raised her eyebrows, looking genuinely surprised, “Does he know you’re here?”

“No.” 

Irene nodded a little, gazing away for a moment before fixing Molly with her gaze. 

“Now begs the question: why are you here then?”

Molly set her cup down and watched as Irene took a few drinks, her lidded eyes peering over the rim.

“I don’t really know. I needed to get away, I suppose. Couldn’t stand the city anymore,” Molly said finally, looking down at her lap.

“You’re in a city now,” Irene pointed out, then her eyes lit, “Oh, I see. It wasn’t the city you were running from, was it?” 

She was good, Molly thought. Sherlock had seemed enraptured and it only took a few moments in her presence to see why.

“I thought it’d get better if I left. I just couldn’t go on working and driving by that flat and running into John and everyone every day,” Molly sighed, looking Irene square in the eye, “I needed to stop wasting time on Sherlock.”

Irene’s lip turned up in a smile as she leaned forward, setting her tea down, “I agree. I met him and he seemed like some kind of hero. The longer I stayed, the more I realized that he’s poison,” her face shadowed for a moment, “Especially for me.” 

Molly felt a surge of kinship for the woman opposite her. She had no idea what had gone on between Sherlock and Irene, but she was glad that someone else knew what she was feeling without her having to reveal it.   
She smiled shyly at Irene, who echoed it back. The room was quiet for a moment and Molly could feel an odd kind of tension rising in her shoulders as she held Irene’s gaze. 

“I suppose we’re more alike than I thought,” Molly said quietly.

Irene’s gaze became almost sultry, “I’d like to see just how much we have in common Ms Hooper.”


	5. What Are You Wearing?

Days passed quickly after their encounter, and Molly’s life began to transform into a blur of hotels and cocktails and shopping centres, always with Irene at her side. She’d been taken a hold of and spun out until she barely recognized the happy woman smiling to herself around her toothbrush in the morning. Molly wasn’t sure why it was Irene, of all people, to make Molly feel like she’d come up for air after an eternity underwater, but she was grateful, and let the darker woman know at every opportunity, mostly without words. 

She found herself buying flowers or small trinkets while she was out, just to see Irene’s eyes light up and smoulder when she presented her with them. Molly wouldn’t realize it until later, but she began to dress up and consciously try to imitate the hair and makeup tutorials she YouTubed. She bought her first expensive bottle of perfume and, without really understanding why, a lacy black bra. She quickly realized the implications and indecency and proceeded to hide the thing in the back of her closet for weeks before she got the courage to wear it out under a dress Irene bought her. 

Irene in turn looked splendid as always, wrapped in glamour and sophistication, but there was something about the way she walked and smiled and laughed a little easier that was a testament to how Molly’s friendship had lightened her, lightened them both. She constantly texted Molly, keeping up a litany of her daily activities and comments about her life, and Molly loved them and the glimpses they gave her into the mysterious woman’s life.

But could Molly continue to call it friendship when she was dressing up for the woman, or spritzing perfume before dinner, or God forbid, maybe buying underwear with the hope of the other woman seeing? 

Could she admit that she could now think about Sherlock without hurting? 

Already, Molly could admit things to herself privately and feel almost comfortable with them. She could admit, in the dark before she went to sleep, that the thought of Irene’s red lip marks all over her naked body was becoming a repeat offender in her dreams. She wasn’t sure what it meant for her, or her friendship that was still in its infancy, but she knew that while she rubbed between her legs at the wet that bloomed there, she throbbed and ached for curves and long, curly hair, and a smoky voice edging her toward those blissful waves of pleasure, always with an edge of guilt. 

It was one such evening, while Molly had just gotten out of a hot, lavender bubble bath and had her nightly cup of chamomile tea that it happened. She had lit her vanilla candle and was laying down in the dim light answering the buzzing from her phone. She and Irene chatted for a bit about mundane things they had done, then they noticed the late hour and said goodnight. Molly blew out her candle and rolled over onto her back, staring up at her dark ceiling. 

What was Irene doing right now, she wondered. She was probably still awake, as she kept late hours. Maybe she was having a late night glass of wine, or she was drawing a bath to relax.

Molly closed her eyes and let her mind wander at that; Irene would be naked, the steam making her curls a little frizzy, easing herself into the fragrant hot water, letting it enveloping her legs, her curved behind, her slim waist, finally settling around her perky breasts. Maybe she would sigh with pleasure. Maybe she would rub a soapy sponge onto her skin, turning the paleness a little pink…

Molly kept her eyes closed and slipped her hand under her pyjama shorts and into her panties, lightly teasing her throbbing clit, spreading her legs.

Maybe Irene would spread her legs too, under the water, letting her hand drift from her pebbled nipples down her slender stomach and down between her legs. Molly rubbed at her clit, feeling it jump a little under her fingers, feeling her sticky wetness drip. She panted and held onto the images she had.

She wondered what Irene would look like. Maybe her nipples were pink, or lightly tan and maybe her beautiful folds were pink or red. Molly’s mouth watered a little as she imagined mouthing and sucking on Irene’s pussy, licking into the hot, soft folds, hearing her moan…

Molly’s phone buzzed and she jumped and quickly pulled her hand out of her pants. Now, who the hell was that? 

Annoyed and aroused and a little ashamed at what she’d been thinking of, she reached over and checked. The message she saw there made her heart jump into her throat. 

From: Irene  
I’m thinking of you. Not to sound cliché, but what are you wearing?


End file.
